


Heaven Sent

by MirrorMystic



Category: Fire Emblem: The Sacred Stones
Genre: Action, F/F, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-05-19 03:24:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19348528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MirrorMystic/pseuds/MirrorMystic
Summary: In which L’arachel fights evil by moonlight and wins love by daylight. ;)Written for L’Eirichel week on Twitter, prompt “sun/moon”.





	Heaven Sent

**Author's Note:**

> A little something for L'Eirichel week. Loosely connected to "Sidewinder" and "Connect the Dots", though they're hardly required reading. Enjoy!

~*~   
  
_ Winter, year 815. Day 12 of the Lagdou Crusade.  _ __  
__  
_ I’m well aware that I brought scribes on this expedition for the sole purpose of recording this historic undertaking, but I’ll not have our glorious work sullied by the words of fearmongers and cowards. Not to mention, it’ll give me an excellent chance to practice my already elegant penmanship.  _ __  
__  
_ The fall of the Demon King seems so long ago. But over a decade later, his hordes continue to terrorize the countryside. That’s why I proposed this undertaking in the first place: the Lagdou Ruins must be purified. And who better than myself to lead the charge?  _ __  
__  
_ As we approach our first full fortnight within the ruins, I find myself struck by the enormity of this undertaking. It is a mission whose scope others might balk at, but not I. I stand here today at the head of a grand coalition, a Magvel united against the enemy of all life.  _ __  
__  
_ And I do not stand alone.  _   
  
~*~   
  
“My Lady Exalt!”   
  
There’s a rush of wintry air as the tent flap flies open, sending the candles guttering on L’arachel’s writing desk. She lifts her gaze to the runner, standing breathless at her door.    
  
“My Lady,” he gasps, “we have a situation.”   
  
L’arachel emerges from her tent to find bedlam in the camp, coalition forces running to and fro. Above her, the light of Saint Latona’s Halo shines, surrounding the camp in a dome of golden light that no monster dares enter. Without the Halo’s respite, the crusade would never have a moment to rest, and would have dropped dead of exhaustion after the third day.    
  
There’s a huge crunch, and the Halo flickers. L’arachel snaps her gaze towards the far end of the camp, where a horde has begun massing outside the shield. Leading the swarm is a massive, gray-skinned cyclops. There’s another huge crunch as its axe smashes into the Halo. Its comrades hoot and snarl in anticipation.    
  
Unfazed, L’arachel strides out into the open, a magnificent cloak in crimson and gold draped over her shoulders. She marches, pride in every step, as the messenger falls in step beside her, cringing at every rhythmic pounding of the cyclops’ axe against their barrier.    
  
“Where is our scouting party?” L’arachel demands as she walks.    
  
“They’ve yet to return, my lady,” the runner responds.    
  
“And who’s maintaining the Halo?”    
  
“Father Artur, my lady.”   
  
L’arachel sees him. He’s standing in the center of camp, both hands wrapped tight around Saint Latona’s staff, his normally placid expression twisted into a grimace. Sweat drips down his brow.    
  
Another crunch. Another flash across the Halo’s flickering surface.   
  
“Plug that hole!” Dozla bellows. He rallies a squad of Rausten knights to his side, and they begin shoving supply crates together into a makeshift barricade. But the cyclops continues hammering away at the Halo, each slam of its axe warping and deforming the barrier. Mauthe doogs snap and claw at the barrier’s fraying edges, tearing open gaps and wriggling their way through.    
  
Dozla shouts out a warning as the first daemon wolves leap over his barricade and come careening into their square. Their eyes shine in the Halo’s faltering light, their paws pounding across the cobblestones.    
  
There’s a whistle past L’arachel’s ear. Then another. And another.    
  
In an instant, a trio of mauthe doogs tumble across the ground, arrows lodged in their skulls. L’arachel looks up, searching for the shooters. She finds Neimi on a stone ledge overlooking the camp, wrapped in an olive-green cloak that melts into the shadows. The other is far more conspicuous-- Innes stands in plain sight in the center of camp, firing shots down the concourse, confident that not a single monster will live long enough to reach him.   
  
With one last mighty swing, the cyclops smashes through the Halo. It shatters like glass, crashing down in crumbling shunks of solidified light.    
  
The shockwave blasts Artur off his feet and tosses him into the snow. Lute is at his side in an instant, studying his hands. Smoke rises from his fingertips, and strange, glowing symbols seem to have burned themselves into his palms.    
  
“Magic drain,” Lute murmurs, and L’arachel understands. Saint Latona’s staff shines with a fire so bright and pure that no ordinary man can touch it without being burned.   
  
But L’arachel is no man. And she’s  _ far _ from ordinary.    
  
Artur meets her gaze, crumpled in the snow with his seafoam-green stole hanging limp from his shoulders. L’arachel silences his stammered apology with a single regal finger to her lips.    
  
There’s a thunderous crash. With one massive swing, the cyclops pulverizes the barricade and hurls Dozla off his feet. Dozla hits the ground hard, all the air slammed out of his lungs. He gasps and wheezes, groping along the paving stones for his own weapon. The cyclops raises its axe in both hands--   
  
A beam of searing golden light punches into the cyclops’ leg. It crunches down onto one knee, howling in pain, searching the grounds for its attacker.    
  
L’arachel raises the staff of her ancestors like a queen’s scepter, shining like a star in the clouded night. In a flash, golden fire envelops the cyclops in a luminous cascade. The cyclops yowls, clawing at its face in agony. L’arachel strikes her staff against the ground, like the gavel of a judge, and the cyclops is gone-- obliterated into ash and dust.    
  
The horde of ghouls doesn’t flinch at the loss of their leader. They push forward, regardless, a tide of flesh, bone, and toxic black magic surging forward into the breach.    
  
L’arachel raises her staff, ready to face them.    
  
Something cries out above-- something that sounds strangely like a whinnying horse.    
  
A spear strikes the ground like lightning falling to earth. It explodes into a hurricane of magicked wind, stopping the advancing horde in their tracks.    
  
L’arachel laughs in triumph, lifting her face to the sky. Above, she sees the wings of a pegasus, silhouetted against the moon-- and one of its riders, diving through the air.    
  
It’s a sight that burns itself into L’arachel’s memory, no matter how many times she’s seen it-- a comet, gleaming crimson and gold, falling from the sky as if from heaven itself.    
  
Lightning explodes outwards in a shockwave of shivering azure electricity, burning ghouls to ashes and hurling their crisped remains across the ruins. The holy sword Sieglinde stands buried to its hilt in the center of the crater, lightning crackling from its form.    
  
Eirika stands, drawing Sieglinde out of the earth. She reaches behind her and similarly plucks Vidofnir out of the shattered paving stones.    
  
For a moment, just a moment, Eirika looks like something out of the epics-- holy sword in one hand, winged spear in the other, her cape billowing in the breeze. She’s something unassailable, immortal, divine-- like a statue carved atop a victory arch. A goddess of war.    
  
But as soon as L’arachel comes running, she’s just Eirika again-- Eirika, smiling sheepishly at the theatrics of her entrance and laughing with Tana as she swoops by, tossing Vidofnir back into her grasp. Her Eirika, who came on this crusade not for love of war, nor divine purpose, but because L’arachel was going, and Eirika wouldn’t let her go alone.    
  
L’arachel leaps into Eirika’s waiting arms, despite the stunned horde of ghouls not ten feet away, and pulls her into a kiss.    
  
“It’s rude to keep a lady waiting,” L’arachel murmurs as they part, turning to face the horde.    
  
“Forgive me,” Eirika says. She nods to the swarm of monsters pulling themselves to their feet. “Stay behind me, my lady Exalt.”   
  
“Who do you think you’re talking to?” L’arachel chides, smiling. “I’m right beside you.”   
  
L’arachel takes Eirika’s hand and squeezes, the moonlight glinting off of two gleaming golden rings. As L’arachel pulls her hand away, golden light shimmers between her fingers and coalesces into a blade of solidified light.    
  
“Together, then?” Eirika asks.    
  
“Together,” L’arachel smiles.    
  
She taps her crystalline sword against Sieglinde’s in salute, the chime resonating across the battlefield and drawing all eyes their way. They rise against the horde together, swords flashing, staff held aloft, shining a brilliant red, white, and gold…   
  
~*~   
  
L’arachel stirred. She sat up, puzzled, and scanned the room.    
  
Eirika was sitting at her tea table, gilded in the light of a Rausten summer sunset. The very sight of her made L’arachel gasp, her heart flipping in her chest.    
  
“Oh, you’re awake!” Eirika smiled, laying a ribbon across her page and setting her book aside. “Forgive me, I would have woken you sooner, but you just looked so peaceful. I just didn’t have the heart.”   
  
L’arachel blinked. “Ah. Right. My post-tea nap. My apologies, Eirika, that’s no way to treat a guest.”   
  
“It’s really no trouble,” Eirika reassured.    
  
“What, ah…” L’arachel cleared her throat, awkard. “What time is it? What  _ year  _ is it?”   
  
“It’s about sixth bell, in the year 810? Is this a trick question?” Eirika raised an eyebrow, smiling fondly. “You summoned us here to discuss a proposal of yours. One that you’ve kept maddeningly secret, I might add.”   
  
“Well, I don’t want to spoil the surprise,” L’arachel teased.    
  
“It must be quite a surprise if you’ve summoned all of Magvel,” Eirika said, amused. “I’ve not seen so many of us together since Ephraim and I had our twenty-fifth nameday.”   
  
“Now  __ that  was a night to remember,” L’arachel smiled.    
  
“They’re going to be serving dinner soon,” Eirika said. “We should probably get down there and say our hellos. And then, we can get to business.”   
  
“Right. Of course.”   
  
“Are you alright? You seem… distracted.”   
  
“What? No, I’m fine, I’m fine…” L’arachel mused. The sunshine slanting in through her windows was so warm, so enthralling. She lifted her hand and curled it around a sunbeam, imagining herself molding it into a crystal blade. Then she turned her hand, saw the empty spot around her ring finger, and immediately felt her cheeks grew pink. She cleared her throat.    
  
“...Say, ah. Eirika?”   
  
“Yes?”    
  
“Do you think you could show me a bit of swordplay, sometime?”   
  
Eirika blinked. “...I suppose. Where is this coming from?”   
  
L’arachel turned away from the window. Now, it was Eirika’s turn to gasp at L’arachel gilded in the summer sunlight, her hair practically glowing in the light, like a halo, or a crown.    
  
“Let’s just say it came to me in a dream,” L’arachel said. “A very vivid dream.”   
  
Eirika smiled, and L’arachel could feel her chest swell with affection. Eirika offered her arm, and L’arachel took it.    
  
“Would you like to tell me about this dream, on our way down to dinner?” Eirika asked as they walked.    
  
“Of course,” L’arachel smiled, patting her arm. “Although, we may have to take the long way down…”   
  
~*~


End file.
